Vampire Hunter D: The White Prince
by silent-clarion
Summary: The citizens of the Five Towns offer a huge bounty to the Vampire Hunter who can slay their Prince—the lure of riches and fame draws Hunters from all over the land. Can D reach the Prince first, or will the competition be too strong?
1. The Five Towns

**Vampire Hunter D: The White Prince**

By clarion

**"The Five Towns"**

The sun hung low like a swollen red eye as an inky figure on a black cyborg horse paused at the lip of a steep bluff. The valley sweeping below him was already covered in shadow, with only the strange mountain rising from its center still ablaze with light. As the rider continued around the rim of the oddly circular valley, the sun passed behind the mountain. The shadow of a peculiar structure jutting from the peak swept across the rider's pale face, beneath the broad brim of a black hat. The horseman paused again, this time looking up instead of across the valley's lush farmland. A castle with white stone walls speared upwards from the mountain's summit, its towers like a crown of white thorns adorning the lonely peak.

The road cut through the valley rim at a steep angle, switching back several times before bringing the rider to the valley floor. The only entrance, the road was smooth and well maintained. In places it still bore the plastic-based pavement from its Noble origins, but human hands had since replaced most of the road with stone. At the valley floor it cut like a white incision across green pastures and fields thick with crops. The climate controllers still worked perfectly, providing a long, temperate growing season. It was little wonder people flocked to the area, despite the looming mountain and castle atop. Five towns thrived here, in fact. Spread equidistant around the peak, they had grown into small cities from the villages they had been long ago, when the castle was first built. No one remembered that time, of course, but anyone looking down into the valley could see the hand of the Nobility on the plans, laying out the roads interconnecting each town, separating each original village _just so_. Later generations of humanity had expanded and altered much of the original design, but the seed planted by the Nobles had grown true.

Five towns clustered around the base of the mountain like children sheltering in their mother's skirts: Argent Springs to the northeast; Petra in the northwest; Doncastle and Cliffside to the southeast and southwest, respectively; with the largest town to the north. Forzia, funneling all trade and travel in or out of the valley. Collectively, they were the Five Towns and the mountain rising from their center was called the Lost Peak on account of it being "lost" from its fellows, miles from the nearest mountain range. Ruling over them all with a mostly indifferent fist was an ancient Noble known as the White Prince.

The dark rider followed the pale road into a boisterous and bustling Forzia. Ordinary townsfolk in simple clothes mingled elbow to elbow with outlandishly dressed Hunters. Traders lined the wide main street with stalls and wagons, hawking wares from ordinary to exotic. A festival air filled the town, complete with music and dancing. Alcohol flowed abundantly from the town's taverns, and everyone celebrated. Like the chill aura that flowed from the dark rider, though, an undercurrent of danger lurked beneath the festive atmosphere, clear to anyone who paused long enough to listen.

The rider pressed through the throng, who parted around like water to let him pass then closed behind him as though he'd never been. His destination was a large hotel near the city's center. The blocky structure towered over Forzia's other, mostly low buildings, six floors of rooms with the ground floor dominated by a large bar that doubled as a meeting hall. Here the concentration of Hunters was thickest, the festivities' din faded, replaced by a battle-ready edge and the raucous voices of drinking Hunters.

Dismounting at the hotel's large stable, the rider entrusted his mount to a cluster of red-liveried stablehands, removing his saddlebags and slinging them casually over one shoulder. The fading light glimmered on the silver hilt of a long, curved sword strapped to his back. The dark figure entered the hotel, passing through the wide double doors. Behind him, the stableboys whispered to each other, wide-eyed, and once the black horse was securely stabled they gave it a wide berth.

Inside, the din skipped a beat as the black-cloaked figure entered, then continued as though it never stopped. Hunters filled the room, crammed around every table and lined up three-deep at the bar. More poured in through the double doors every minute. The heat of so much humanity was stifling, the noise—laughing, shouting, clinking glasses—deafening, and the miasma of smoke, sweat, leather, and gunpowder hung thick in the air.

The man in black pushed through the throng to the bar. In such a crowd, even his chill aura did little to ease his passage. A man in wolf skins bumped his arm, yelling "Sorry, mate!" before disappearing into the mass of people. A glance caught the bartender's attention, and the portly man strapped into a white apron approached, wiping sweat from his completely bald pate.

"A room, if you have any." The stranger's voice, like dark velvet, carried through the din with ease.

The bartender shook his head. "We've been full up for days, what with the contest and all. Something to drink?"

Before the stranger could turn away, another patron pressed into his side, trapping him at the bar. A slender arm draped with a lacy cuff slipped forward, and a hand gloved in brown leather shook an empty glass.

"Mineral water," a husky female voice said. The owner of the voice turned to the man in black towering over her. "Well, well. If it isn't the Hunter, D. You're late to the party, friend."

D turned to the woman leaning against the bar. She wore a form-fitting red vest and dun-colored leather pants tucked into tall, laced boots, with a lace-ruffled white blouse spilling out of the vest. Taking a fresh glass of mineral water from the bartender she gestured with her head towards the other side of the room. "Join me at my table, will you?" Without waiting for a response, she slipped into the crush. D followed like a tall shadow.

He caught up to her at a small table in one corner of the room. With a snap of her gloved fingers the woman cleared the group of young would-be Hunters, who slunk away with sheepish grins. The two seated themselves, and the throng, which had previously surrounded the table, unconsciously stepped away creating a bubble of space around the pair.

"I'm late, you say," D said.

The woman smiled over the rim of her glass. The warm electric lights glimmered in the deep chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders. In stark contrast to the rich color, a thick streak of white spread from a point at her hairline. A silvery scar sliced downward across her right eye, disappearing beneath a wide leather band decorated with silver filigree that covered her eye diagonally. Her remaining eye was a deep, clear green, and sparkled with obvious amusement. Despite the warmth of her gaze, her skin was pale, cold marble very similar to the man across the table. It marked them as a sort of kin, and explained why the table cleared so quickly.

"Indeed," she replied. "Most of the other Vampire Hunters have been here for days."

"Then you are here for the contest as well," D said, as a statement more than a question.

"Fifty million dalas is no prize to sneeze at," the woman said with a shrug. "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself." She stood and sketched a brief bow rather than extending a hand for D to refuse to shake. "Marcella, Vampire Hunter."

"I've heard of you," D said.

"Highest praise," Marcella responded. "I'm flattered." She returned to her seat. "Everyone has heard of _you_, of course. I honestly didn't expect you to show up here, though. Something like this," she gestured with one gloved hand, taking in the throng of other Hunters with a dismissive gesture. "There's too much spectacle."

Reaching inside a pocket on her vest, Marcella removed a small metal case. It opened with a slight pop, revealing tightly packed cigarettes rolled with dark brown paper. She lit one with a match, leaving the case on the table. Taking a long drag, she exhaled fragrant smoke pungent with clove and other spices. "Sorry," she said as smoke curled up from the cigarette. "It's my vice. Not all of us are made of razor control and iron willpower like you. I started smoking to distract myself from…other cravings. It works well." Marcella examined the small, dark brown tube before taking another pull. "Maybe because of the oral fixation these things create."

D ignored her digression and the smoke drifting between them and responded to her earlier statement. "Then you think this hunt is beneath my dignity."

"I can't help but wonder—why _are_ you here?" Marcella asked. "This is a circus, and all things considered there are worse Nobles you could be hunting."

"I have personal reasons for attending this hunt," D answered, and from the flat tone of his voice Marcella knew she would get no more answer than that.


	2. The Challenge

**"The Challenge"**

In the few minutes that had passed, even more people had jammed into the combination meeting hall and tavern. Marcella glanced at the darkened sky through the filmy windows lining the front wall. "There is to be an announcement at dark," she said. "It should begin soon, and we'll finally get some details on this ridiculous farce." She lit another cigarette and crossed her legs, while D turned in his chair toward the bar at the other end of the room. A well-dressed older gentleman in a dark suit and a younger man in dusty clothes with a battered star pinned to his leather vest awkwardly climbed on top of the bar.

"Excuse me, excuse me!" the older gentleman shouted, his voice lost in the noise of the crowd. Accepting a cone-shaped device from the younger man, he tried again. "EXCUSE ME!" His amplified voice washed over the gathered Hunters in a deafening wave, followed by a squeal of feedback. Everyone fell silent.

"I would like to thank you all for coming," the older man continued at a more normal pitch. "On behalf of Forzia and all of the Five Towns. I am Stanford Vim, Mayor of Forzia. This man beside me is Sheriff Nathan Coombs, and you'll hear the details of the hunt from him." Turning over the megaphone to the sheriff, Mayor Vim clambered down from the bar with the aid of nearby Hunters.

"Okay, listen up!" Sheriff Coombs took the attention of the gathered crowd. "The people of the Five Towns have had it! We're tired of living under the shadow of this hells-damned Noble and his mountain full of monsters. Every citizen has pitched in, and we've raised a purse of fifty million dalas. This prize will go to the Hunter or Hunters who kill the Noble known as the White Prince." The sheriff paused for breath, sweat beading on his face and soaking into his faded shirt. "You must bring the Prince's signet ring back as proof of the deed. In addition, we have smaller bounties set aside for all werewolves killed, as well as the other nasty critters living on that blasted peak. There will be check-in stations set up in every town square for you to bring in proof of any kills and receive your reward."

The sheriff paused again, letting the information sink in. "Any questions so far?" he asked. Only silence issued from the expectant crowd. "Okay, I'm sure you're all waiting for this part," he said, a grim expression aging his young face. "Here's what we know about the White Prince."

Sheriff Coombs crouched on the bar and took a sheaf of papers from the mayor, raising them in one hand. "Here's a sketch of the Prince, and on the back is a rough map of the mountain. Unfortunately we don't have a lot of details for you, because nobody's been up there in about a hundred years." The sheriff handed the papers to man in virulent yellow silks standing near the bar who took one and passed the stack along. Soon the rustle of paper filled the air as the Hunters distributed the sketch.

D accepted one, glanced at both sides, then passed the paper to Marcella. The sketch had a shaky quality, as though the artist's hand trembled while they drew. There was no color—the Prince's beauty and malice was captured in stark black and white. Long hair flowed over his shoulders in soft waves, framing a narrow, aristocratic face. His eyes were hooded and shadowed by heavy brows, and even in the sketch seemed to glimmer with some dark secret.

"Everyone have a picture? Okay then," the sheriff continued. "The White Prince is kind of a legend around here, but I assure you he is very real. He's been sitting up there in his castle," here the sheriff raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the accursed mountain, "for hundreds—maybe thousands—of years. Our ancestors were his slaves and fed him with their lives!"

Marcella exhaled fragrant smoke and a throaty chuckle. "He's getting quite worked up. I wonder if he moonlights as a country preacher."

"Hm," was D's only comment.

Sheriff Coombs took a few deep breaths and seemed to calm himself slightly. "For the past few hundred years, the Prince has developed cycles of activity and dormancy. He will sleep for ten to fifteen years, followed by an active period of one to three years. Up 'til now, we've been thankful that he left us alone for so long, but the lives of our friends and loved ones during that time he's awake just isn't a price we're willing to pay any longer!"

The sheriff stood in the center of the bar, his feet surrounded by bottles and other detritus, his shoulders heaving. Not a single Hunter interrupted him with a catcall or rude comment, as all could read his behavior as a man who had lost much to the Nobility and felt sympathy for his anger. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued. "We are currently in the fifteenth year of dormancy. Your task is to kill the White Prince before he wakes up and starts preying on our towns again."

As the sheriff finished speaking, but before he could jump down from the bar, something white flickered just at the edge of vision. Marcella sat upright in her chair and D's eyes took on a sudden glint of watchfulness.

"A fine speech, from a fine lawman," a hollow, distinguished voice intoned. A ghostly form stood in the open doors to the hall, the empty street and night sky behind him slightly visible _through_ his body. As one, the Hunters looked at the sketched form of the White Prince, then up to the flickering image standing before them. "Ha! Yes, I am your target," the pale figure laughed.

The title of White Prince was not just a figure of speech. From the flowing silvery hair falling nearly to his waist, to the smooth, cold, alabaster of his skin, to the white silk robe draping his slim form. Even his eyes were pale and colorless. "Forgive me for not dressing for the occasion," the Prince said, spreading his arms wide in a mocking gesture.

Shocked into silence, Sheriff Coombs gaped like a fish. The Hunters were briefly stunned as well, until a small form burst from the crowd and lunged at the white figure with a shrill yell. What appeared to be a blue-painted child swiped at the ghostly vampire with a wicked-looking machete. The blade simply passed through the Prince's body with no effect.

"How tedious," the Prince said, rolling his eyes.

"Well shit!" the blue urchin cried out with a decidedly adult male voice, albeit slightly high-pitched. "It's a bleedin' hologram!"

"No, your problem is that it _ain't_ bleedin', Stovepipe!" a dark-skinned giant called out from near the bar, where he towered over the other Hunters.

"Up yours, Jacks," Stovepipe said with a rude gesture.

"Charmingly crude," the Prince said. "Now that we've established that I'm not an idiot, I would like to issue a challenge of my own." The Prince's image crossed his arms and looked around the room with hollow eyes. His gaze fell on D, and the slightest hint of surprise flickered across his pale features.

The entire room waited in hushed anticipation for the Prince's challenge. Even though they could not harm a hologram, many fists clenched white-knuckled on the hilts of weapons.

"I understand there's quite a large prize for my head. Tempting, but what could be more desirable than money?" The Prince's image examined his fingernails. "Perhaps…immortality."

The giant, Jacks, let out an enraged roar. "Stuff your immortality! Nobody here wants to be a Noble!" Other voices chimed in from around the room. "Yeah, blow it out yer ass!" "Immortality ain't worth shit when you've got a stake through the heart!"

The Prince chuckled. "Just throwing it out there. An idea to mull over as you race each other to my doorstep. I'll be waiting—please, all of you. Make this little contest…interesting." With that, his figure faded until only an afterimage burned into the retinas of his audience remained.


	3. Hunters

**"Hunters"**

"Can you believe that?" Jacks pounded the bar, bouncing beer bottles, shot glasses, and the blue dwarf Stovepipe into the air. "That jerk-off has some nerve!"

"I hear ya, mate." The wolf-skin-wearing man who bumped into D earlier leaned against the bar, nodding. "Oh, by the way—the name's Fang."

"Fang?" Stovepipe asked, his tone incredulous.

"Ah, okay. Not really." The fur-garbed man ducked his head in embarrassment. "It's Spencer."

"You…don't really look like a Vampire Hunter," Jacks said. "No offense."

"None taken," Spencer said, perking up. "I'm a Werewolf Hunter, but Vampire Hunting just seems so much—I dunno, classier. I mean, holy hell! Werewolves don't send holograms of themselves out to taunt a room full of Hunters. Know what I mean, mate?"

Stovepipe and Jacks both laughed. "Yeah, man. That does put a fresh spin on it," Jacks said.

"Hah! Could you imagine?" Stovepipe cackled, nearly falling off the bar.

"So you're trying to break into Vampire Hunting?" Jacks asked Spencer while pulling Stovepipe back onto the bar by his vest.

"Well, I'm keeping my options open," Spencer answered. "I figure, head up the mountain, kill some werewolves, see what happens. Maybe I'll get a shot at the big guy, y'know?"

Stovepipe snorted, coming out of his fit of giggles. "Good luck with that, heh. Takes planning—"

"—And skill," Jacks interjected.

"Thank you, and skill," Stovepipe shot Jacks a dirty look, "to be a Vampire Hunter. Not to mention luck and a healthy dose of badass."

Stovepipe glanced around, then leaned in close and lowered his voice. "Speaking of badass, did you guys see who came in right before the announcement?" He cocked his head and shifted his eyes toward the back corner of the room, where D and Marcella sat surrounded by empty space in a room filled to capacity.

"Oh man! I bumped into that guy!" Spencer said, covering his mouth with one hand. He leaned in as well and said in a low voice, "Seriously, I thought he was gonna cut my head off. I got away from him as fast as I could." Spencer glanced back at the pair as though he felt that long, curved sword against his neck and shivered. "Who the hell is he?"

Jacks spluttered in shock. "You don't—you don't know? He's _only_ the greatest Vampire Hunter to ever walk in the daylight, my friend."

"Uh, okay, but who _is_ he, mate?"

Stovepipe shook his head. "They call him D—who knows what it stands for, if anything. Nobody really knows much about him, except that if you've got a tough Noble to kill, he's your guy."

This time it was Jacks' turn to glance around surreptitiously and lower his voice. "I do know something. I know my grandpa talked about seeing him once, back when he was still a Hunter. Dude's been around for a _long_ time, but look at 'im. Doesn't look a day over twenty."

Stovepipe nodded. "That's a dhampir for ya. The looks, too. Hell, even _I _think he's pretty!" He glared at Jacks. "Don't start getting' ideas now."

"Hey, I agree," Jacks said. "Man's pretty—too pretty. Like a Noble, something inhuman about it."

Spencer had been quiet until this point, listening to their talk and sneaking glances at the dark-clad man. "I dunno mates. There's something…_sad_ about him. Can't really put my finger on it, just a feelin' y'know?"

Jacks nodded. "Hell, just imagine living that long, watchin' all the people you meet getting' old, dyin'—'fore you even had a chance to get to know 'em."

"That is," Stovepipe broke in, "if they'd even give you the time of day in the first place."

"Yeah, there's the real curse of bein' a half-breed," Jacks said. "Neither side wants t'have anything to do with ya. Too much of a Noble to live with humans, too _human_ to want to have anything to do with Nobles."

"Except kill them," Spencer added.

With that, the three of them fell into a somber silence. Each wondered deep in his heart what kept a man like D going, and each measured his own will and resolve to that impossible standard and fell short.

-------------------------

Marcella stubbed out her latest cigarette on the table next to the other crumpled butt, giving the table's ashtray—full of an unidentifiable liquid and bits of trash—a nasty glare. "What did you make of His Highness' performance?" she asked, adjusting her cuffs and looking at D askance.

"That it was just that—a performance." D's gaze took in the entire room, as he made a small gesture toward the Hunters around them. "Designed to throw them off-balance."

Marcella nodded. "It seems he had some success. Those who are not simply spooked by his confidence are at least hampered by suspicion that some Hunter might just take the counteroffer." She heaved a heavy sigh and stretched her arms out in front of her body, fingers interlaced. "But, then again—we Hunters are already a surly bunch, full of competition and spite for our peers. It would take little effort to stir _that_ pot."

D did not respond. Instead, he retrieved his saddlebags from where they rested on the floor and, with a single, smooth motion, stood and turned to leave.

"D." Marcella's husky voice cut through the tavern's din as a sharp command, even though she made no effort to raise its volume. The Hunter she addressed paused, turning his head slightly. "As I told you before—you're late. There's not a room left to rent, nor a stable or empty yard to sleep in."

"I'll manage," D said, adjusting the sword on his back. He once again started to leave.

"However," Marcella continued, ignoring him. D paused again, this time without looking at her. "Those of us who were early had our pick of rooms. I myself have a suite in this very hotel. Nothing special, just a bedroom and adjoining sitting room." Her gloved hand slipped into another pocket and produced a pair of keys that jingled flatly together as she tossed them on the table. "I had planned to sell the use of my sitting room to the highest bidder, but after looking at this lot," she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, "I decided to keep it for myself. Unless—"

At this, D finally turned back to face her, expressionless as always. "Unless?"

Marcella gave him a small smile. "Unless a certain Vampire Hunter would like a safe place to rest where he doesn't have to worry about drunken Hunters mistaking him for a Noble and turning him into a pincushion…" She trailed off, flicking an imaginary speck of dirt from her sleeve.

"What's the catch?" D asked.

Marcella raised one key, offering it to him. "How about…you just owe me a favor?"

D accepted the key, enfolding it in his long, pale fingers. "Agreed."

-------------------------

Despite the late hour, Forzia still rang with drunken revelry. Even in the hotel, on the floors beneath her room, Marcella could hear running footsteps, shouts, and crashing doors. In Marcella's suite, however, silence reigned.

D rested in the darkened sitting room, a darker shadow among shadows. Marcella was unable to tell if he was awake or if he slept. The situation had her quite amused, though. Her bedroom was plainly appointed, but did contain a desk near the room's single window. Dressed in a simple gray shift and wrapped in a blanket, Marcella scribbled the day's events into a worn journal, writing just by the lights of the city below.

_—And imagine. Finally meeting the famous Hunter and now he owes me a favor? That is a rare prize, indeed. Certainly one worth coming to this farce of a hunt for._

Her pen scratched across the paper, recording her thoughts in a cramped, old-fashioned script. Above, she had drawn cartoonish caricatures of D, the sheriff, the mayor, and some of the Hunters. Each had their name listed beside their portrait.

On the outskirts of town, something—perhaps a fuel tank or a Hunter's vehicle—exploded. The resulting fireball bloomed above the low buildings and briefly filled the room with light. Marcella glanced into the next room to catch a wakeful D easing back into a more relaxed position, his hand leaving his sword. Her pen scratched across the page a bit more.

Her eyepatch rested on the desk beside her, and the dying fire's light glimmered in her sighted eye and glazed across the milky surface of the blind one. Marcella chewed the end of her pen and watched the thick smoke blot out the stars, and wondered absently if the blaze might spread. Finally deciding the entry complete, she snapped the book shut and opened her pack, burying the journal deep beneath extra clothes and sundry supplies.

Marcella journaled religiously, recording names and faces and experiences before they could slip out of her memory. She crouched over her pack and fingered the long scar cleaving her forehead as though it pained her. Not only had the blow intended to kill her destroyed her eye, when the axe split her skull it had not been kind to the brain beneath. Even with her mingled blood the wound had been slow to heal and left her with scars, not all of which were visible.

Marcella pulled another book from her pack. This one had a title: _The Migratory Habits of River-born Mist Beasts._ Her newest acquisition, traded from a local bookseller for a worn copy of _Memoirs of a Noble's Manservant_ and 14 dalas. Marcella hadn't found that one particularly interesting. The plot of the book escaped her, but she could still remember the Noble's favorite parakeet was called Winifred.

"I'm sure that piece of trivia will be handy someday," she muttered. "Or not." Marcella's memory had a slight quirk: names and faces faded away like morning mist, but the more useless a piece of information was, the more likely she remembered it. Due to a voracious appetite for books of any subject, if called upon she could accurately describe the climate cycle of the North Sea for the past ten years and how it affected seafood export from the town of Florence, but the next day she wouldn't remember who it was that asked. Her hope was that someday some bit of worthless trivia would be useful, and so she was optimistic about this new book.

"But we must get an early start in the morning, my friend," Marcella murmured to the book, "so I can't get to know you tonight." She replaced it in her pack and crossed the room to her bed. Throwing back the covers, she crawled in and curled up to sleep.


	4. The First Test

**"The First Test"**

The Hunters rolled, ran, rode, and raced out of Forzia before dawn, the pearl-gray sky yet untouched by the warm sun. The mountain that was their destination loomed, its thick-forested sides draped in mist.

Spencer the Werewolf Hunter wove his atomic-engine motorcycle expertly around wagons pulled by cyborg horses thundering along and past slower, gasoline-powered cars and trucks loaded with teams of Hunters and those just along for the ride. He had exchanged his furs for more practical gear, tough boiled leather layered and stitched to make lightweight, flexible body armor. Gray fur still trimmed his boot-tops, and wolf-skin bracers covered his forearms. Spencer's one concession to motorcycle safety was a pair of homemade goggles with one green lens and one clear. His wild shock of black hair whipped in the wind, and his only apparent weapon was a repeating rifle strapped to his back. Ahead, Spencer noticed a familiar pair and sped up to catch them.

Riding on an enormous, three-wheeled motorcycle, Jacks dominated the road and threw up a column of dust that left Spencer gasping as he rode through it. Dust already coated the giant's dark arms, which he had left bare other than leather wrappings around his wrists. A dark leather vest strained to close over his muscular chest, and brightly striped pants tucked into tall boots flapped in the wind. The blue dwarf, Stovepipe, rode behind him, strapped into a small seat welded to the trike's frame. Stovepipe waved as Spencer came abreast and Jacks flashed a broad grin. He had bugs in his teeth. Spencer noted that the odd pair had matching goggles and helmets and shook his head, matching their speed as they roared toward the mountain in the distance.

-------------------------

From his vantage point above the road, D watched the first wave of Hunters make for the mountain. Taking only a scant few hours of rest, he had left well before dawn, slipping out of Forzia with only a chill in his wake. Well, and one female Vampire Hunter on an antiquated motorbike. The whine of her bike's engine echoed off the steep banks of the roadbed as it climbed and switched back, announcing her arrival. Leaving the outcrop, D kicked his horse to a faster pace and disappeared up the road in a clatter of hooves. As he left, a rough voice seemed to say, "Persistent, ain't she?"

-------------------------

Marcella grumbled under her breath as she had done all morning, since waking bolt upright at the slight _click_ the suite's door made as D left. "…Got some nerve, sneaking out…never imagined he was _really_…that's just low-down…" Smashing her wide-brimmed hat tighter onto her head, she leaned low and slid through another turn, forcing the bike to stay on the road.

Once awake she'd thrown on the same clothes from the night before (grimacing at the smell), whipped her hair into a tangled knot behind her head and strapped a pair of wide-bladed short swords crosswise to the back of her belt, just below the small of her back. Grabbing what she called her "sunlight gear" and her pack, she dashed out the door behind him. Putting on her gear as she ran down the hotel's narrow stairwell—a pair of dark-lensed goggles, her hat, and a brown leather duster—she burst out of the hotel in time to see D riding away. Cursing furiously, she found her bike parked among the jumble of other vehicles behind the hotel and tore out after him.

Marcella roared out of town, determined to catch D and pass him if she could. The modified engine attached to the frame of her bike was small but powerful, using both gasoline and a solar-charged power source scavenged from some light craft of the Nobility to propel the lightweight, rugged frame. Even though she could easily overtake a cyborg horse without reaching full speed, Marcella was unable to catch up to D. Revving the engine she opened up to full throttle, the tail of her coat flapping behind her as she sped down the road. In the distance she could see the black speck that was D, but somehow he kept the distance between them even. He could not pull away, but neither could Marcella overtake him. She grumbled some more, cursing unnatural dhampir horsemanship and early risers.

By the time Marcella reached the foot of the mountain and the road started its steep incline, D was long vanished behind the sharp curves of the road. Marcella eased off the throttle slightly, but maintained a dangerous speed as she whipped around the hairpin turns, leaning in hard and even bracing herself with one foot as she slid around in a cloud of dust. Through sheer recklessness she gained some time, but never caught up to D enough to see more than a flash of his cloak or a flip of his horse's tail several turns above.

Around the mountain's base, the road was well-maintained and branched off into newer sub-roads, mostly used by loggers or townspeople gathering rare plants from the ancient forests cloaking the mountain. Proximity to the towns and regular security patrols kept most of the nastier beasts higher up on the slope, where the forest remained dense and untouched, a primeval temperate jungle. Higher up, the road was less traveled as well, and soon Marcella was forced to slow down or risk serious damage to her bike from deep potholes and washouts.

Marcella rounded a curve and suddenly found herself sliding on loose dirt and gravel. Slamming the brakes and bracing with her foot, she managed to stop without incident. In front of her, the remains of a large landslide probably two or three years old covered the entire road. The tracks of D's horse were plain to see, cutting across the slide diagonally and continuing up the slide to more secure ground.

By this time, the sun was well up and Marcella could feel the heat beating down uncomfortably, even covered as she was. The burning light made her testy and impatient, so adjusting her goggles and spitting out some grit, she revved her bike's engine and tackled the slope. Her bike's thick-treaded tires cut into the dirt, but having several seasons to settle it was hard packed and shifted little as she zigzagged up the slide. She reached solid road a few minutes later, covered with a new layer of dust but no worse for wear.

Marcella's feeling of victory evaporated as she rounded the next bend and slowly eased to a stop. The origin of the landslide faced her—a wide gash where the road had completely fallen away. The bluff rising to her right was climbable, but only if she was willing to leave her motorbike. Marcella shut off the engine and dismounted, walking to the edge of the gap to examine the situation.

The gap was further across than the road was wide, a distance too far to be easily jumped. The sides of the gap were nearly vertical where the substance of the mountain itself had sheared off and plummeted down onto the road below. It would not be a comfortable fall to go over the edge. Walking to the outer rim of the road, Marcella leaned out, trying to see the condition of the road above. The slide had taken a large chunk of the next tier, but a wide ledge remained. If she could just get across, the road ahead could be driven, making her loathe to abandon the bike.

-------------------------

High above the slide, D reined in his horse and dismounted, leaving it to stand while he walked to the edge and looked over. Below, he could see Marcella examining the gap. From the general area of his belt, a rough voice spoke, "Wonder how she's gonna get across?"

"It's none of my concern," D said, yet did not move away from the edge other than to step back slightly as Marcella peered up.

"Afraid she's gonna see you?" D's left hand asked. "That was a dirty trick, sharing her room then sneaking out before she woke up. I bet she's pretty pissed at you."

D did not respond verbally, but squeezed the fingers of that hand into a tight fist.

"Oof! You know, that chick's not bad on the eyes. Kinda like you in the looks department, actually. Plus she's not all fragile like some human broad—"

D squeezed tighter.

"Ow! Hey! I'm just sayin'! It wouldn't hurt you to hook up now and then, and this dame has some potenti—arg!"

D wrenched his fist tight enough to crack his own bones, and continued his watch in peaceful silence. Below, Marcella straddled her bike and restarted the engine. Turning around, she retraced her path some distance back down the road but did not continue deeply into the last curve. Doubling back, she gunned the engine and leaned low over the handlebars, headed for the edge.

D's own passage over the gap had not been effortless. Like Marcella, when faced with the collapsed road he slowed to examine the gap, walking his horse to the edge. He turned his horse and trotted back a short distance, then wheeled his mount and urged it forward. Evincing his skill, he had no need to whip the beast or kick it wildly. A gentle squeeze of his legs, the pressure of his hands on the reins, and his presence in the saddle were all that was needed to push the cyborg horse to its maximum speed and beyond. Breath thundered in its lungs and its sharp hooves gouged the road's dusty surface as it approached the wide gap at a dead run. At the last moment, D gathered the reins and leaned forward in the saddle, while beneath him the horse bunched its augmented muscles and released into a powerful jump.

They sailed across, the horse's front hooves landing securely on the road. However, the jump had been slightly short and its hind feet slipped off the edge. The creature scrabbled frantically for solid ground. D slackened the reins and leaned forward, encouraging the horse with his body. At the same time he kicked his feet out of the stirrups, prepared to jump off if the animal went over the edge.

Finally, the horse found purchase, its rear hooves digging into the crumbling earth just below the lip of the gash. The horse momentarily went to its knees, lurching forward, and only D's inhuman reflexes saved him from a nosedive over the horse's head. The horse quickly regained its feet and lunged over the edge, staggering forward a few shaky steps before D checked it to a halt and dismounted.

D carefully examined his horse for injuries, running gentle hands down the creature's legs. Satisfied that it suffered only from surface abrasions, he calmed it with a touch on the neck and sprang into the saddle to continue ascending the rough mountain road, until he reached the narrow overlook where he now watched Marcella attack the same obstacle.

-------------------------

Marcella hit the edge of the gap and popped the front wheel of her bike up. The engine whined, the shrill sound echoing off the raw gash in the mountainside as nothing but empty space passed beneath her wheels. She watched the other side approach, reaching the apex of her jump. As gravity took hold, and the bike started sinking, a snarl of rage and frustration tore from her throat, past bared teeth.

"Shit! It's too far!" In midair, Marcella swung her leg across the seat, quickly dismounting. At the same time, she changed her grip on the handlebars, grabbing them in the center with her left hand and pushing the bike slightly away from her body without releasing it.

Reaching out with her free hand and bracing with her legs, Marcella slammed into the opposite wall. Air left her lungs in a violent gasp and black spots exploded in front of her eye. The bike slammed into the bluff a second later with a sickening crunch, the engine stalling out. She and the bike then started to fall away from the wall, sliding down even as she braced with her legs and tried to stop. With a snarl, Marcella slammed her right hand into the soil and rock with as much force as she could muster, coming to a shoulder-wrenching stop approximately fifteen feet below the lip of the gap.

Marcella hung there for a moment, coughing and trying to force air back into her lungs. Her bike was lightweight, but she generally didn't hold it suspended with one hand. Her shoulder ached—both of them did, actually—and the fingers of her left hand were going numb. On top of that, the sun was beating down on the back of her head painfully, as she had lost her hat. Dirt and rocks dislodged by her impact trickled down, sliding over her arms and bouncing off of her head.

Once she was able to breathe normally, Marcella tightened her grip on the bike and shifted her weight forward, leaning as close to the bluff as she could. "I am _not_ going to drop this damn thing now," she muttered as it banged into her leg and threatened to dislodge her. With a grunt, she pulled herself a few inches higher with her right hand, then kicked new toeholds into the crumbling face. Letting her feet support her weight and pressing her body tightly against the cliff, Marcella reached up and speared her fingers into the earth once more. Over and over, in this halting fashion she slowly made her way to the top.

Marcella was gasping for breath when she finally pulled herself over the lip of the drop-off. She hauled the battered bike over the rim, then sprawled on her back and stared up at the next tiers of road looming ahead. Narrowing her eyes, she focused on a dark figure looking over the edge, high above.

"That son of a—" Marcella leapt to her feet and shouted up at D. "You could have at least thrown me a rope!" Her bruised hands clenched into fists. "He stood up there and _watched!_" she growled through gritted teeth. Turning her face upwards again she yelled, "When I get up there—" but D was already gone.

Grabbing her bike Marcella quickly assessed the damage. The front fender was severely bent, keeping the front wheel from spinning properly. The rest of the damage was superficial—small dents and scratches. Taking the fender in one hand and securing the bike with the other, she bent the metal back into position. It wasn't pretty, but Marcella grinned when the engine fired into life with a sweet roar.

"Thanks for waiting, D," she said, adjusting her goggles. Revving the engine, she tore out, sending gravel and dust flying.


	5. Into the Woods

**"Into the Woods"**

Spencer cut his engine and set the kickstand, parking his motorcycle on the side of the road, near the bluff that supported the road above. Stepping off, he joined Jacks and Stovepipe at their vehicle as they looked out at the deep gash in the road. The trio had made it across the slide debris—Jacks' trike wallowed up the slope like a behemoth, while Spencer zipped ahead with ease. The collapsed road was more effectively blocking their path, however.

"Well that's a bitch," Stovepipe said, spitting over the edge and watching it fall.

Jacks shrugged. "Looks like we're on foot from here. I just hate leaving my baby out here in the middle of nowhere though." He ran one massive hand over the trike's sleek chrome frame.

Spencer knelt in the dust at the broken edge of the gap. He traced deeply gouged hoof marks with his fingers, then examined the tracks left by a two-wheeled vehicle with narrow tires. "Somebody went across here," he said, straightening and wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Too bad that somebody ain't gonna be us," Jacks said as he opened the large panniers on the back of his bike. "Come get your junk, 'Pipe."

From the edge, Spencer had a view straight down the mountainside. Below he could see a few heavier vehicles struggling with the landslide. As the faster travelers separated from the slower, the mass of Hunters had thinned out over the course of the morning. As they each reached this first test, most would find it impossible and be forced to turn back or find an alternate route.

Spencer turned to see Stovepipe pull his machete from its sheath and examine the edge before sliding it home. He secured the weapon to his back with a harness that crossed his chest. Much like Jacks, his arms were bare and dusty, but he wore a vest of sturdy leather covered with overlapping metal discs. A pair of leather bracers covered by thin strips of metal protected his arms. Instead of pants, the dwarf wore a green kilt and sandals laced up to his blue knees.

"Um, Stovepipe," Spencer said as he retrieved his own pack from where it had been strapped to the rear of his motorcycle. "I've been meaning to ask you, mate—"

"What's with the blue?" Stovepipe interrupted. "Don't worry, people ask all the time. It's a vegetable-based dye. I bathe in it every two, three weeks to freshen the color."

"But why?"

"Why not?" Stovepipe shrugged. "I like being blue."

"Actually, that isn't what I was going to ask," Spencer said, scratching the back of his head. "Where'd you get a name like Stovepipe?"

"Oh, that's easy!" Stovepipe reached into one of the panniers and withdrew a tall black hat with a flat top and narrow brim. "It's 'cause of my hat," he said, pulling it down on his head.

"Right," Spencer nodded, a slightly dazed expression crossing his face.

Jacks finished slipping wooden stakes into loops on his belt and hefted a massive mace, resting it on one shoulder. The spikes studding its cylindrical head gleamed in the late morning sun. "Either of you two ladies got one of them maps?" he asked. "I kinda lost mine."

Spencer rummaged in his pack, eventually digging out a piece of crumpled paper. "Yeah, here."

Jacks accepted it, smoothing out the creases. "This map sucks," he said, frowning as he examined it.

"The sheriff did say nobody's been up here for a while," Stovepipe said.

"Yeah, but this thing don't even have those logging trails we passed earlier." Jacks gave the map back to Spencer. "Worthless piece of crap."

Stovepipe knelt and tightened the laces on one of his sandals. "Who cares, man? We know which way to go." He straightened and pointed at the road above them, where it continued to ascend, inaccessible. "Up."

Jacks laughed, hitching the mace higher on his shoulder. "Now I remember why I keep you around." He and Stovepipe headed for the shoulder of the road, where thick grass made a narrow verge beside the road and led into the encroaching forest.

Stovepipe paused and turned back, looking at Spencer. "You comin'?"

"Huh? Oh, right." Spencer looked up from studying the map. "You're right, mate. Map's no good, but it did show a river or somethin' off the road a ways." He shoved the map into his pack and slung the pack over his shoulder, trotting to catch up with the others. "Might be an easier way than straight up the hill."

Jacks shrugged as the trio entered the shade of the forest's edge. "I'm thinking straight up alongside this road's gonna save more time. Gotta get around this damn bluff though."

"We could just climb it," Stovepipe said.

"You're kiddin' me, right?" Jacks rolled his eyes and glared back over his shoulder at Stovepipe, who was jogging in an effort to keep up with the huge man.

Stovepipe shrugged. "Just a thought."

Spencer, taking the rear position, craned his neck upwards, looking at the top edge of the offending escarpment. "It's not too high, but looks pretty crumbly. I don't think I'd wanna try it. 'Least, not without ropes and gear."

"See!" Jacks called back from his position as trailbreaker.

The three Hunters pressed on, following the cliff as it ran perpendicular to the road. The foliage became denser as they moved away from the road, blocking out much of the sunlight and leaving them in an eerie green twilight. They ate from their supplies as they walked, not wanting to waste time stopping for the noon meal.

To their left, the cliff gradually dropped away, or rather, the faint trail they seemed to be following rose on a slight incline. After another hour of walking the cliff remained no more than a jumble of broken boulders strewn across the steep incline. Scrub trees and twisting vines grew among the stones, and around them dark columns of trees rose tight together, with little growing between their trunks. Damp leaf litter covered the ground in thick layers. Around and above them, the forest was alive with birdcalls and the rustling of wings and small creatures.

"Hold up," Jacks said, dropping his mace and resting his meaty hands on the pommel. Stovepipe sank down on a nearby stump and started fishing around in his sandal with his finger.

Spencer shifted the shoulder strap of his rifle to a more comfortable position and crossed his arms, standing at ease. "What's up, mate? Tired already?"

"You dream," Jacks said with a rude gesture and a grin. "Naw, I figure it's time to decide. Up, or find that river."

Stovepipe flicked a pebble out of his sandal. "I vote up."

"That's two," Jacks said, "counting me."

Spencer remained silent, looking past his two companions deeper into the woods. "River," he finally answered. "Sorry mates, I just got kind of a feelin' about this one."

"Hell, nothin' to be sorry about!" Jacks slapped Spencer on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down. "You got your way, we got ours."

Stovepipe waved as he walked past. "See ya, man. Hope you find some werewolves, 'cause we're gonna be cashing in the big prize."

Spencer smiled and watched them push ahead, climbing over the tumbled rocks littering the slope. Their voices drifted back even as their figures grew indistinct in the green half-light. "Hey look, there's even a path this way," Spencer heard Stovepipe call out. Concern briefly clouded Spencer's features, and he unslung his rifle. Flicking the safety to OFF, he set out in a new direction, diagonally away from the path his friends trod.

Deep in the gloom, shadowy shapes flickered between the ancient trunks, slipping in and out of view. As they ran, the birds overhead fell silent and the small creatures scurrying in the leaves below froze in terror. A chilling aura swept out in all directions as they loped between the trees, gray ghosts at home in the perpetual twilight. Even after they passed and were gone, the forest remained silent and still.

-------------------------

The wind of her passage whipped her tangled hair into even more impossible knots as Marcella pushed her bike as much as she dared up the twisting mountain road. Here the trees were thick, growing right up to the road—even into it. Some hardy specimens had taken advantage of cracks and thrust themselves upward through the decaying surface, their roots splitting the ancient pavement even further as they pushed it aside. Branches spread above, enclosing the road, now little more than a track, in cool shade. Marcella was grateful for the protection for without her hat she was more vulnerable to the sun and had already expended a great deal of energy this day.

Marcella knew something was amiss when she saw D standing beside his horse. As she approached, the trees that had pressed close to the road, obscuring her view, suddenly cleared and she could see why he had stopped. The road was gone. Completely.

As though a giant or some great, impossible force had carved away the mountainside, a vast chasm sliced across not only the road but the land to either side. In the distance, the mountain rose in huge, squared-off terraces with sheer, almost polished sides. Nothing grew on them—any soil was long swept away by wind or water until only bare stone remained. The road extended a short distance over the chasm but some time in the past it had fallen, leaving only a broken stump.

Marcella brought her bike to a halt beside D. "That doesn't look natural," she said, raising her dusty goggles to get a better look. She squinted in the bright sun.

"It isn't," he replied. A cool wind from across the chasm stirred his dark hair and fluttered the hem of his cloak, disturbing the absolute stillness of his form. "From the look of the cuts, I'd say this was a quarry. It was probably where the Nobility harvested stone for the castle."

"Is there any way across?" Marcella could see a similar stump of road on the far side, indicating there was once a bridge. The road then sliced into one of the huge steps as it continued its way toward the castle. "At the least, would climbing down and crossing it from below be an option?"

D shook his head. "The walls of the ravine are perfectly smooth. It's quite deep as well."

Marcella rubbed her forehead, smearing dirt. Standing in direct sunlight was rapidly making her feel ill and she glanced back at the trees lining the road and their welcoming shade. "What do you suggest then?" she asked, her voice strained and tired. She looked up in shock at a slight touch on her shoulder.

"It's nearly noon," D said, his pale face unreadable. "Stay here, rest in the shade. I'll look for a way across."

Marcella wondered if she had imagined the touch. She opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut immediately to seal in the moan that tried to escape. Her thoughts swirled in confusion—she needed to get out of the sun, immediately. Nodding her agreement with D's plan, she stumbled back toward the trees, leaning on her bike more than pushing it.

D followed, leading his horse. He stopped it near Marcella's bike, which she had propped against a large tree. It snorted at the smell of gasoline wafting from the engine. D calmed with a low-spoken word, then flipped the reins over the horse's head and left them to trail on the ground. This activated the horse's programming to remain in that spot as if tied.

Marcella unslung her backpack and dropped it on the ground. As though her legs could no longer hold her weight she sank to the grass beside it. The ground was cool beneath her, and already her head was starting to clear although it ached fiercely. She looked up to see D standing nearby, his expression inscrutable. "What?" she asked.

"You should have a hat," he said and removed his own, offering it to her.

Marcella stared at him for a moment, confusion and surprise plain on her face. Suddenly scowling below the dark goggles perched on her head, she waved the hat away, refusing it. "I don't need a pity-hat," she muttered, looking away. Snatching her pack she wrenched it open and shoved her hand inside, rummaging. In a moment she extracted a wadded nightshirt. Marcella shook it out with a vicious snap, then ripped the seam out of one side.

D put his hat back on and watched as Marcella twisted and prodded at the nightshirt, tucking in the material until something resembling a lumpy gray turban covered her head. One sleeve flopped over her sightless right eye. She left the shirt tail draped across her shoulders to protect her neck. Leaning back against the tree with a smug look, Marcella pulled the small metal case out of her vest and took out a dark cigarette, lighting it with a match struck off her boot.

"I'll be back soon," D said, turning away. As he did a slight expression flickered across his face. Had anyone seen it, they might have thought the Vampire Hunter looked annoyed for that split second. He walked away, returning to the chasm's brink to follow it as it sliced through the forest.


End file.
